Chapter 16
Itug at the hem of my sundress as I walk toward the restaurant where I'm meeting Henry.
Golden light spills over main street, highlighting the beautiful red hues of the old brick buildings. I loved this time of night.
It was nearing seven o'clock in Honey Grove when things quieted down for the evening.
Summer was my favorite time of year in our small town. Everything was bursting with life and color, giving me a new appreciation for our small town—an appreciation that felt palpable inside my body with each step toward him.
The corner of my lip tilts up in a slight smirk when I think of how irritated Henry was when I told him I'd meet him here. I had to drop Milo off at Colt's, and it didn't make sense to drive back home before our date.
It was adorable how much he grumbled about it, his brows furrowing in that endearing way as if it was some grand affront to chivalry. "But I'm supposed to pick you up," he'd protested, his voice tinged with genuine exasperation. It was sweet.
I shift my purse on my shoulder, trying to grasp the idea that I'm going on an actual date.
I hadn't been on a first day since I was sixteen, and I could feel the nerves pressing down on my chest. A nervous energy coils inside my body, radiating outward in little sparks that vibrate over my body.
My palms feel damp to the point where I press them against the fabric of my dress, willing myself to relax.
After a few more feet, I approach the restaurant where I've been many times. I spot Henry instantly like I always seem to, and my breath catches for the millionth time this summer. He looks different tonight, somehow. Or I'm looking at him differently.
I don't ignore how my pulse beats uncontrollably when I see him tonight.
His usually tousled hair is neater like he had spent hours trying to tame it.
His navy button-down complements the deep golden tint in his eyes, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that are now my weakness.
And here I am, hopelessly trying to steady my breath before I walk inside.
Half-hidden by the restaurant's entrance, I linger for a moment, letting myself take him in. It's ridiculous how one person can make me feel like this—like every nerve in my body is firing all at once, an unpredictable mix of anticipation and vulnerability.
I step out of the shadows almost simultaneously as he glances toward the entrance. Our eyes meet, and his expression matches how I'm feeling inside. He offers a hesitant smile, and I return the sentiment.
I straighten up, forcing my feet to move forward. "You look nice," I manage, the words escaping me before I can overthink them.
Henry's smile widens, and he rubs the back of his neck in the way he does whenever I give him a compliment. “Thank you, Pajarito.” His gaze sweeps over me, and something flickers in his eyes, warm and genuine. "Te ves hermosa."
His rich voice wraps around me, and for a second, I honestly forget how to breathe. I may not know much Spanish, but I know enough to piece those words together. Beautiful. He said I look beautiful.
My cheeks flush, and the warmth spreading down my neck makes my heart pound even harder. "Thank you," I say, my voice quiet and almost shy.
Henry leans closer, his hand gesturing for me to follow him. "Are you ready?" he asks, the slightest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips as if he knows the effect he's having on me.
I nod, walking past him and into the main seating area without tripping over the strappy sandals, which seemed like a good idea then.
The familiar scent of garlic and fresh bread wafts through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses.
I've been to this place countless times, but tonight, it feels different.
Henry follows closely, and I can feel him behind me. The ghost of his hand hovers just above the small of my back as the hostess leads us to a quiet corner table.
We sit down across from each other, and for a moment, I'm hyperaware of everything—the smooth fabric of my dress against my legs, the way his fingers brush against the edge of his menu, the faint dimple in his cheek when he glances at me with that easy, disarming grin.
"How was dropping Milo off earlier?" he asks, breaking the silence as he sets his menu down.
I relax at the mention of Milo, a familiar and safe topic. "Good. He was excited because Colt is taking him to his parent's house. Colt's dad has a tractor, and Milo is obsessed with that thing."
Henry laughs, making me lean into the conversation. "I noticed he has a lot of tractor toys, so that makes sense. I think I almost stepped on one the first time I was at your place.”
I smile at the now-distant memory. "Consider yourself lucky. I have stepped on one and can confirm that it hurts more than stepping on a Lego."
He laughs again, and I smile at how effortless this feels. I wasn't sure why I was so nervous because being here with him felt right.
When the waiter brings our drinks, Henry leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on me in that steady, unflinching way that makes me feel like he can read my mind. "I still can't believe you agreed to this."
I raise an eyebrow, glancing down at the menu. "What? Dinner with you?"
"Yes, Pajarito. Dinner with me," he confirms, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I was sure you'd find some reason to say no."
I laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah. I didn't have a good excuse this time, so here I am."
I peek up from the safety of my menu to make sure he knows I'm joking. Sure enough, his endearing smile hasn't faded.
"Very funny," he says. "But seriously, I know you agreeing to this is a big deal. I know it's hard to make time for this."
There's something vulnerable in his tone, and it takes me a second to find the words. "You make it sound like I'm doing you a favor," I say, quiet but sincere. "But the truth is I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be."
His eyes sharpen, making everything else fade to the background. "Good," he nods, a calm smile breaking through, "because I've wanted to do this for a while."
His confession chips away at the imaginary wall I'm still attempting to hold up. I reach for my water to steady myself. The calm surface of the glass refreshes my mind.
"So, how is your book going?"
Henry's lips twitch and there's a flicker of unease behind his expression. "It's complicated," he confesses, his hands smoothing out the fabric of his slacks pressed against his thighs.
"Complicated how?" I press.
He hesitates, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass. "I don't know. This will sound silly, but I'm experiencing major writer's block, and it's not because the material isn't there. I have a ton of research and details mapped out—I just need to sit down and write."
"Writer's block doesn't sound silly. It sounds like a nightmare," I observe while the waiter sets down two glasses of white wine in front of us. I smile and pull my glass in for a small sip.
Henry's gaze follows my lips, and there's heat behind his stare. The usual warmth in my chest sinks lower, pooling in my stomach.
He lets out a hesitant, nervous laugh. "It is.
It's like I know exactly what needs to happen, but it's not coming together.
There's also the fact that I find myself stuck in my own story.
Like I can't move forward because the passion and the excitement aren't there.
I knew there would be roadblocks trying to write in a completely new genre, but I thought it would be more uncomfortable than impossible. "
I look at him sitting across the table. There's something in his expression now, a vulnerability that wasn't there before. It's not just the writer's block. It's something else, something unspoken. But I don't push.
"What if you can't finish it?" I ask. The words tumble out before I think about how blunt the question might be.
His eyes flickered with a sadness I'd never quite experienced. The man across the table knew what it was like to be successful in his field and to feel that success slipping away for a second time had to be heartbreaking.
Henry takes a deep breath and grips the edge of the table.
"If I'm being honest, my agent might drop me.
She's the one who pushed me into this project—recommending that I stick to what's safe and what's commercial.
She's never led me astray, and I don't want to let her down again, but… " He pauses, biting his lip.
I watch him, his eyes avoiding mine for a moment, trying to gauge how much he wants to reveal about his own insecurities.
There's something more to this, I can tell.
I don't know whether it's guilt, the fear of disappointing someone he respects, or the shadow of someone he's trying to please, but again, I don't push. Not yet.
"What are you really afraid of?" I ask, immediately ignoring my own advice.
He meets my gaze again, his eyes dark and troubled. This has been weighing on him for longer than I've realized.
"I'm afraid that she'll think I'm not the same person she believed in," he says, the words coming slowly like they're bitter on his tongue. "That I've failed her somehow. And if that happens, I don't know what comes next. Maybe it's over. Maybe it's all been a mistake."
I reach out. This was the first time I'd tried to touch him the entire evening. He leans forward into my touch, taking my hand into his.
He holds onto me like I'm the only thing that can anchor him, stirring something deep inside me. His hand is warm against mine, a quiet connection that feels like it's saying everything we haven't dared to speak aloud yet.
"You haven't failed anyone," I say, my voice sure and steady.
He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at me like he's searching for something in my eyes—something that can help lighten the weight on his shoulders.